


I Sing the Body Symmetric

by zuzeca



Series: The Pillars of the Temple [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Consensual, Gambling, Games, Gangbang, M/M, Multi, Other, Plug and Play Sex, Spark Sex, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 02:34:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzeca/pseuds/zuzeca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surprisingly, Orion makes a lot of friends onboard the <i>Nemesis</i>. Season 2 AU, divergent following the "One Shall Rise" arc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Sing the Body Symmetric

**Author's Note:**

> Repost of an old fic which has become part of a longer series, collectively ~~and pretentiously~~ titled "The Pillars of Temple". I'm putting it up in preparation for posting the subsequent parts. Originally a kinkmeme fill which ended up exploding into a full-fledged AU, this piece was the result of the very bizarre combination of researching Walt Whitman and computer processing. As a person only a few steps beyond believing my computer runs on magic, I suppose I can be forgiven if my first thought upon discovering the existence of symmetric multiprocessing was Transformers porn. Link to the original prompt is [here](http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=8071049#t8071049). Hope you guys enjoy it.

_The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them,_   
_They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them,_   
_And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul. – Walt Whitman_

 

His face ached.

It had been a good decacycle since the Pit-spawned Autobot had melted the side of his faceplate into so much twisted slag. It wasn’t life threatening, but on current rations self-repair was going to take a fragging age. For now he was left with ‘take a number’ by their resident medic and a visual field approximately sixty percent of what he should have at optimum.

Which was how he managed to run right into Orion Pax while turning a corner on his way to the mess.

“Careful!” a large hand clamped down on his shoulder, steadying him as he hastily tried to backpedal and nearly tipped over. Bright blue optics, _Autobot blue_ , blinked down at him, “That’s better.”

His gaze flicked to the brands on Orion’s shoulder guards, the paint still creased and cracked, fresh, “Very sorry, sir.”

“No harm done, I assure you. And you are?”

Thrown by the inquiry, when was the last time an officer had addressed him directly, it took him a nanoclick or two to kickstart his processor into responding. He snapped to attention, “MS63410-9, sir.”

Orion cocked his head and regarded him with not a small amount of irony. “Very good. That tells me your caste, function and batch number. Miner if I’m not mistaken, unless they’ve changed the numbering system. But that wasn’t what I asked.”

Terror threatened for a moment, “Please, sir, I don’t, I mean—”

Orion interrupted his panicked babbling gently, “Your designation. What do you go by among your peers?”

For a moment his processor was a complete blank; he couldn’t even believe it, surely Orion wasn’t serious?

But the other mech just waited, patient.

“Trencher, sir.”

Orion smiled at him.

“Well, Trencher, I seem to have gotten myself a bit turned around. Would you mind directing me to a refueling station?”

He had to struggle to recall, “Well, I was headed to the main mess, but I think the officers have one on the upper decks, I’m not quite sure where—”

Orion waved him off, “Entirely unnecessary. I can refuel easily enough with the rest of you. That is, if you would not mind the company?”

“Er, of course not, sir.” 

As if there was any other answer he could give.

Orion beamed, “Excellent, lead the way then, Trencher.”

_The others are going to have my head for this._

 

When Orion Pax, formerly one Optimus Prime—no matter what the higher-ups were saying, you’d have to be _blind_ not to notice those blue optics and frankly the semi-truck alt mode was a dead giveaway—walked into the main commissary, reactions varied.

Lockout and Chip froze in the midst of their five-dibs game, one of the pieces bouncing and spinning to plummet over the edge of the table. Dozer had the poor luck to have just taken a draught of energon and was overcome by a convulsive fit as he fought to clear his intakes. The rest of the assembled Eradicons fell utterly silent.

Orion offered the mob an uncertain smile.

Drop-Tank cast an inquiring glance his way, but Trencher ducked his head to avoid notice, easy enough when most of the mechs in the place stood half again as tall as he did, and scooted across the room towards the energon dispenser on the far wall. 

Unfortunately Traction intercepted him.

“Have you fried your motherboard, you half-processor glitch?” Traction gripped his arm and dragged him close, “Why did you bring _him_ here?”

“He wanted to come,” Trencher spat back. “You want to be the one to tell Megatron how I defied an order from his, frag I don’t know, his _pet Autobot_?”

Traction’s visor blazed and for a moment Trencher was sure he was going to lamp him one, but then strong fingers wrapped around his claws and peeled them back, not roughly, but inexorably. Trencher wrenched himself away and glared up at the mech who’d interfered; Drop-Tank of course.

“That’s enough,” he said, voice calm, but wings raised in challenge. “It doesn’t matter who invited him, he’s here now and there’s no reason not to be polite.”

Traction flicked his own wings in irritation and cast a sneering look at Trencher, “Figures you’d stand up for the Autobot scum, he’s only a few steps below your usual friends after all.”

Trencher clenched his fists, “Say that again, you—”

“Traction—”

“Is there a problem?”

Orion.

Drop-Tank shifted to attention without a pause, “No, sir.”

“Just a bit of friendly ribbing among comrades,” Traction added, his tone thick with sarcasm.

Orion regarded the three of them, “Then I suppose you might not say no to an addition to your little party? I admit I’ve no one to refuel with this cycle.”

“Of course, sir,” Drop-Tank replied, tone carefully blank.

And that was how Trencher found himself the oblique center of attention of several score of warrior class Eradicons, sharing a cube of energon with a bunch of Pit-spawned glitches, plus Optimus Prime, former leader of the Autobots.

_This day just keeps getting better and better._

 

The thing that struck Trencher the most about Optimus, or Orion rather, was the sheer, utter _banality_ of him.

_Seriously, how did this guy end up the chosen of Primus?_

Three megacycles with him and Orion hadn’t done a single thing that might be considered out of the ordinary. No grandstanding speeches, no plotting, no giving orders. He’d followed up his cube of energon with a proposition to Chip for a game of five-dibs. Bemused, Chip had accepted, probably for the pure novelty of being able to say he’d once beat Optimus Prime in gambling. Nevertheless, the remaining mechs crowded around the table to watch as the two tossed and called their bets. Trencher could only stare, numb with the surreality of it.

Orion didn’t even _win_.

A hand on his shoulder startled him out of the unique experience of watching Optimus Prime laugh and clap Chip on the back in congratulations. Drop-Tank leaned over him, wings lowered and optic visor narrowed in concern.

“I meant to ask you about your injury.”

Trencher turned back and stared, determined, at the spectacle, “Nothing to say.”

“You’re still having trouble with it, aren’t you?”

“Self-repair will take care of it soon enough. Now shouldn’t you be associating with your own kind? Or are you enjoying slumming with the grounders?”

Drop-Tank’s hand tightened. “Traction is an idiot. I—”

Trencher shrugged him off. “I don’t want to hear it. And I’d rather not have to look behind my shoulder for your buddies every minute.”

“I won’t let them hurt you—”

Trencher turned away. “You’re so invested in protecting me? Keep your distance.” He stalked away from the crowd of hovering mechs. “Enjoy the game.”

 

Orion Pax was beginning to remind Trencher of the sticky, brown dust of this planet; he kept turning up in annoying and uncomfortable places.

“Trencher!”

Oh joy.

“Power Train and Dragline have been discussing organizing a lob game on one of the lower decks. I was wondering if you would like to join us.”

Okay, this was beginning to get ridiculous. Trencher halted so fast Orion nearly rammed right into him. The larger mech started back as he whirled and thrust an accusing finger in his face. “Please tell me you’ve fried a processor and you’re not actually this naïve.”

“I only thought—”

“Warrior classes don’t associate with servants like me. End of story.”

“But Drop-Tank—”

“ _Drop-Tank_ ,” he hissed. “Is as much of a naïve glitch as you appear to be. And like you, he is utterly incapable of minding his own business!”

Orion stared at him, utterly taken aback, before something softened, “Oh, Trencher…”

The sympathetic look on the other mech’s face made him want to purge his tanks. Muttering oaths, he turned to leave, but Orion caught him by the wrist.

“Wait,” he said. “Please, come join us. Just for a bit. You can leave as soon as you’re ready, but just give it a chance?”

No mech that large should be able to successfully pull off a pleading expression, but Trencher found himself crumpling.

“Oh for booting up cold, fine, yes I’ll come. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

 

“Power Train and Dragline” turned out to be code for “most of the crew”, all of whom were milling around on the newly cleared lob field, clicking and chattering with excitement. They’d barely made it through the door before Orion was swept away and Trencher was accosted by several of his fellows.

“Isn’t this amazing?” piped Sandblaster, slinging an arm around Trencher’s shoulders. “Can you even remember the last time we got around to organizing a game?”

“Not for a vorn at least,” murmured Lockout from nearby.

Trencher eyed the weapons knitted to Lockout’s broad forearms before tugging Sandblaster down close to his vocalizer, “What is he doing here? Should he be with the others?” 

Sandblaster gave him a startled look. “Didn’t anyone tell you? Orion suggested mixed teams; we pulled Lockout in lots. We’ve got Dredger, Dozer and Drop-Tank too.”

_Marvelous._

Trencher glanced over to where Orion stood, mobbed by Eradicons half his size, laughing and beaming as he tossed and toyed with the makeshift ball they’d molded out of scrap.

He sighed.

“Fine, whatever, let’s just get this over with.”

 

Trencher was absolutely _not_ having fun.

He snagged the ball from Traction’s claws, whirling and ducking as the flier grabbed for him. Satisfaction sparked hot as the other mech overreached and missed and he zipped away, dodging between Transonic and Scalar.

_I may be small, you fragging glitch, but I can outrun you any cycle._

Ducking between grasping arms, he scanned desperately for another member of his team.

_…absolutely not having fun._

Then two other vehicle Eradicons shifted and he saw him.

Drop-Tank.

He didn’t think, just flung the ball. 

Claws reached, straining, and for a moment he thought the other mech was going to miss, but then they hooked in a crumpled metal ridge and brought the ball in, safe

“Time!” shouted Orion, and the others erupted with cheers.

_…absolutely not having, ah slag it._

 

Venting deeply, Trencher leaned back against the hull of the ship and watched Orion tangle with a gaggle of Eradicons, whirling and ducking with surprising grace for one so large. As the biggest mech among them, he’d conceded to a handicap; facing a team singly in a modified game which consisted of protecting the ball and retrieving it if any of the others managed to snipe it away.

So far they hadn’t managed to steal it once.

_Guess all that twitter of this guy being the only one to ever defeat Megatron in combat might not be a rumor._

“Coolant?” came the low inquiry from beside him.

He didn’t look Drop-Tank in the optic, just extended his hand and accepted the small can. Clawed fingers cupped his and he shivered slightly as they withdrew.

Busying himself with the coolant, he focused on the game, where Orion was currently pinned between two fliers. Then to his utter astonishment, in a shocking display of flexibility, Orion dipped and vented hot air across the sensitive leading edge of the wing of the flier to his right. Transonic leapt aside and before the flummoxed mech could recover himself, Orion had broken free, darting across the court and tossing a flirtatious wink behind him as he went.

The coolant can dented slightly beneath his fingers, “Er, that Orion’s really something, isn’t he?”

Drop-Tank rumbled with interest, a low sound that rattled and buzzed across his internals from this proximity, “That he is.”

Maybe those other rumors about Orion and Megatron had something to them as well.

 

Eventually the matches began to peter out and Trencher found himself enmeshed in a heap as crew members began to drop across the deck. Nearby he could see Orion, flat on his back, Dredger, Sandblaster and Chip draped across his chassis, Lockout and Dozer propped against his legs. Drop-Tank curled against his own back, stroking against his plating and humming in contentment.

Purely to be arbitrary, Trencher let him.

It was Sandblaster who broke the silence. Nestling against the curve of Orion’s chest, he sighed wistfully, “If there weren’t so many of us, a group interface would be awfully nice after that. We haven’t had one in _ages_.”

Dozer clicked in sad agreement, it was typical for different classes to interface on a semi-regular basis, it synched their systems for a brief time and helped with solidarity, “Too bad.”

Orion stirred beneath them, “Too many? What do you mean?”

“Too many different processors,” Dredger said, rolling and stretching lazily. “Once you get beyond a certain number of hookups there’s no direction, no synchronicity. Just a…” He groped a moment for the word. “A clusterfuck,” he announced with satisfaction.

Trencher pressed his face against someone’s plating, he thought it might have been Dragline, and tried to muffle his laughter.

Orion frowned up at the ceiling, “Then the only thing stopping you is the lack of a mech capable of directing multiple processor interfaces simultaneously?”

Chip snorted, “Simultaneously? There’s not a mech built who can manage that.”

“I can.”

Utter silence fell across the deck. Every gaze turned to Orion.

A bit self-conscious, he shifted under the weight of their combined stare, “I was built as a data clerk. I served in the Iaconian Hall of Records and spent a great deal of my time plugged into the Grid. I have extensive multi-processor capability and while I’ve never tried anything quite like this…I should be able to accommodate everyone easily enough.”

“Primus,” breathed Drop-Tank.

“You would…?” Sandblaster said, optic visors glowing with excitement.

“Of course,” replied Orion. “That is, if everyone wishes to do so?” His gaze turned to Trencher as he spoke.

For a moment Trencher felt pinned, but Orion appeared unconcerned, merely watching and waiting for his decision. Behind him, he felt Drop-Tank shift and press a little closer.

Trembling, he slid the plates of his chassis apart, exposing his main interface port. 

Orion smiled and parted his own chest, extending his plug. Catching hold, Trencher brought it to him, plugged it in.

At first he felt little, just the standard update message informing him that something was connected to his port. There wouldn’t be much more until they completed the circuit.

A gentle hand slid across his chest and coaxed his plug forth. Shuttering his visors, he leaned back as Drop-Tank drew it to his chest, connected them. Listened to the click and whirl as others joined the expanding web.

Then a final connection, the hum of dozens of systems, and the world vanished.

Trencher gasped, bucking as pleasure seared across his neural network. The familiar gratification of a typical interface, but echoed in a hundred processors, all reeling together. His processor spun, groping for solidity and failing until he must short or fall…

_Too much, too much, too much—_

And then, amazingly, impossibly, someone caught him.

_Easy,_ murmured Orion. _Just relax. Feel them, their pleasure, as they can feel yours. Don’t try to control it, just let it pass through you._

Shaking, he struggled to ease into the current, sense echoes of the others swirling and streaking across his processor like tiny comets, flashing bright before fading. Lockout, Power Train, Dredger, Sandblaster, even Traction was here, cocky attitude sublimated beneath the whirlpool of shared pleasure. And then another flash, stronger than the others, lingering in his processor, flooding him with warmth, as though he’d swallowed energon.

A flare of amusement from Orion, _Drop-Tank._

An illusion he knew, but he swore he could feel Drop-Tank’s hands curling around his own.

The click and focus of Orion’s consideration, undercut by the echo of Drop-Tank’s longing and adoration, _Do you want this?_

_Don’t know, can’t think, does he mean everyone or just—ah!_ Current raced hot through his circuits and from an impossible distance he felt his body jerk.

_Trencher?_ a doubled voice.

_Primus, yes, want you, always wanted you, slag it—_

Vision returned, piecemeal, still buzzed with static. He was suddenly aware of the weight of Drop-Tank against his back. Shaking, he rolled forward, struggled to spread his legs, but the disparate, overwhelming mix of inner and outer sensory input left his limbs flailing uselessly. 

_Can’t fragging manage to…_ He blazed frustration and pleading.

Orion pulsed equal parts arousal and amusement his way and then in a dizzying display of control Trencher felt his interface hatch slide open independent of his will. Drop-Tank’s engine roared in his ear and then he cried out at the stretch as he was penetrated, almost too much but not quite, Drop-Tank as gentle in this as he was in everything.

And then he lost track of everything, just sensory fragments, the hard press of the deck against his face as Drop-Tank rocked into him, the flicker of others twined together, pairs and groups or writhing singly, and at the nexus of them all, optics bright with pleasure, body twitching from the combined weight their ecstasy.

Orion.

Trencher offlined his visor and surrendered to overload.

 

Orion was missing.

Granted Megatron couldn’t officially declare him as such; he’d only just now begun to search for him, having finished with several issues which Soundwave had required his clearance on and taken a brief time to refuel as well, but the fact remained that he’d been unable to locate the other mech since his return to the _Nemesis_ that afternoon.

Frowning, he opened a private comm. channel. _“Orion?”_

A brief delay, _“Megatron?”_

He found himself tapping his claws against his thigh and tamped down on the gesture, _“Orion, where is your current location? I’ve been unable to find you on any of the upper decks or your cabin.”_

_“Ah, my apologies, I’m down on deck four with most of the crew.”_

Now that he mentioned it, the bridge _had_ been rather empty…

Unease curled in his processor; the Eradicons had been ordered on pain of execution not to mention anything about the former Autobot leader, but there was always the potential for slip-ups, _“And are you enjoying yourself?”_

Orion’s voice was thick with amusement, _“Oh, most definitely.”_

Irritation rose and he was about to demand specifics when a data packet popped up, politely requesting his attention. Grumbling, he opened it.

Suddenly he was blindsided by a flood of sensory information. His fans stalled out and he stumbled, barely caught himself as it crashed through him.

_Overwhelming pleasure, soaking his circuits, humming through spark and wires, lying on his back, legs spread as others writhed around him, the ozone-scent of overloads thick, valve clenching behind his interface panel, empty, so empty, want you, need you in me—_

He slammed off the stream of data so fast his processor buzzed in protest. Venting deeply, he braced himself against the hull, valve twitching in sympathetic contractions.

_“Would you care to join us?”_

Snarling, he tore off for the lower decks.

 

All things considered, he probably should have warned the crew.

But truth be told, a very, very small, devious part of him was amused by the way Megatron could freeze a hundred interfacing mechs in their tracks, just by bursting through the door.

Utter stillness.

Trencher let out a tiny, terrified sound.

Megatron’s gaze swept across the room and fixed on him. Smiling, he tossed out a private transmission even as he sent a wave of calm and assurance through the entire network, _“So you decided to join us after all?”_

Megatron gave him an unreadable look, but Orion detected hesitation in his stance, _“This is not…”_

_“I’ve never known you to be much concerned with propriety or appearances.”_ He spread his arms and legs in invitation and allowed his longing to leak through the commlink, _“And I have missed you.”_

A step forward, heavy, but with a grace that had always awed him, _“Is that what this is? A foolish display to make me jealous?”_

_“Not at all. Think of it as a…contribution to crew morale.”_

_“I see.”_

Orion let out a low note, a non-verbal hum of welcome that resonated throughout the room. Through their connection he felt an answering tremor in the Eradicons, _“Always yours, my brother, always.”_

A shudder wracked that great frame and Megatron knelt before him.

 

Vorns ago, long before he’d broken the shackles of the Kaon blood pits, when his revolution was still in its infancy, Megatron had received a communication from an Iaconian data clerk.

The message itself was not unusual, a letter of support, containing some interesting proposals for abolishment of the caste system, but he had been weary and nothing in the missive caught his eye. He’d passed the message onto Soundwave, to send a generic reply and make note of a possible ally, and had fallen into recharge.

That recharge cycle, he’d had a dream.

In the dream he stood atop a platform in one of the main streets of Iacon. Before him spread a carpet of mechs, all standing at attention, the spires of the Towers beyond them, broken and dark, but gleaming with light, reflected light from a star above them, close enough that he could feel the radiant energy. And enveloping him, a deafening noise,

“Prime! Prime! Prime!”

A vision of war.

A vision of renewal.

A vision of leadership.

He’d contacted the clerk the very next cycle.

It had seemed like divine guidance, how they’d connected, how they’d come before the council, united.

Until it all fell apart. Until Orion left him and returned as what the Council touted as a weapon of Primus, but was in reality little more than a tool of a corrupt governmental system. 

Optimus Prime.

_And now you return to me, when perhaps it does not matter any longer. Once I might have called it fate, but no more._

Orion gazed up at him, legs parted, blue optics blazing from the nexus of hardline connections, of the bodies of soldiers, a sight which should have seemed obscene and only managed to appear sacred.

_And yet…_

He knelt between Orion’s spread legs and placed his hands upon the flat expanse of his chest, felt the hum and pulse of systems and spark. Around them the Eradicons shifted in nervous synchronicity.

Then Orion retracted his interface panel, exposing a valve wet with lubricant, dripping from overload, and he could think no longer.

He pressed inside, sinking into that place of familiarity, of safety if he were to speak of such foolish drivel, and felt the same spark of exhilaration as he had on a similar moment ages ago, when he’d first taken Orion against the wall of his room, his blades still wet with energon from his last match.

Orion arched in pleasure, optics shuttering and body quaking in a way which was echoed by each frame linked to his. Thrown, he halted and stared at his soldiers, processor whirling as he considered.

“Please,” Orion moaned, the first word he’d spoken aloud since Megatron entered the room. Focusing back on the mech beneath him, he thrust, deliberately angled high and deep.

Orion _convulsed_ beneath him and the Eradicons keened in chorus. Blunt fingers scrabbled at his armor as he rocked into him, slick and snug and utterly perfect.

_“So good, Megatron, always good oh they can feel you, can feel them, wish you could, want you to feel them.”_

Amused, he ground down on Orion’s bucking hips, stilling him, _“Then you should have left a hardline connection open.”_

In retrospect, he should have known better than to issue a challenge, however oblique it was. Becoming Prime had changed a great many things about Orion, but some things remained the same. He’d barely fallen silent before that broad chest cracked and sparklight blazed up into his optics.

_“Just a touch, Megatron, not a full merge, but please just a touch…”_

A great deal of Megatron rebelled at the thought of exposing his spark in a room full of soldiers and unease flared at the thought that Orion might pick up something that could resurrect Optimus Prime, but the sight of Orion beneath him, open and offering all the things he’d thought beyond his reach forever, was far too much.

Wary, he parted his own chest, a mere sliver in comparison to the yawning gulf of Orion’s, but it would do. Lowered the weight of his body until the flashing, reaching coronas could brush…

But Megatron never did get to taste the shared pleasure of a hundred mechs. As soon as his spark brushed that of the once-Prime, sensory input vanished.

Jerking back, he tried to withdraw, but disequilibrium threatened as he realized he was standing upright.

_Where…?_

And then he saw them: the broken spires, the gleaming starlight, the bellowing masses:

_“Prime! Prime! Prime!”_

At first he thought Orion was feeding him the vision, but no, he had never shared this particular image, always kept it secret. 

Rage shook him.

_Why show this to me now? To mock me that I have not yet achieved Cybertron’s revival? That I am not yet Prime?_

The gathered mechs continued to shout.

Disgusted, he turned aside, but halted.

At his side on the platform stood Orion, gazing out onto the multitude, smiling.

No, not Orion.

Optimus Prime.

His weapons hummed to life, an automatic response.

“What is this, Prime?” he demanded.

Optimus turned to him, optics bright as Orion’s had been, gleaming with affection.

“This, brother?” he said. “This is the culmination of our vision.”

Startled, he stared out at the cheering mechs.

Cheering for _them_.

_What—?_

Then overload struck.

 

Megatron’s chest slammed shut as he reeled back, still joined with Orion. Casting about as visual and sensory systems rebooted, he caught the scent of ozone, the clink of heated metal, the flicker of optics as the Eradicons came back to themselves. Beneath him Orion stretched and hummed, disconnecting the hardline connection from his chest and coiling away his plug. As he shifted atop him, he could feel the slick slide of lubricant; they’d all reached the pinnacle together.

If such things mattered any longer, it was probably some kind of record.

Disengaging, Megatron retracted his spike and stood, reaching down to pull Orion to his feet. Around them, the Eradicons were slipping away, occasionally casting a lingering glance behind them as they went. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a flier pulling up a small miner with a heavily scarred face.

He searched bright blue optics, half-wondering, half-apprehensive, but Orion merely smiled, serene.

“You could use a trip to the washracks.” It felt strange to speak aloud.

Orion quirked a brow ridge, but conceded the sticky slick coating on his interface array, “As could you.”

“Later,” he replied, his tone indicating he did not wish a debate.

Orion nodded, “Perhaps I could join you, later?” His optics sparkled with amusement.

He nodded, but didn’t bother with a verbal response. Orion turned, all grace even in the wake of what had to be enough shared overloads to bring a mech to his knees, and exited.

He was alone, in the vast echoing space of the empty deck.

“Soundwave.”

The mech dropped from the ceiling, landing in near silence behind him.

“You obtained a copy of the records contained in Iacon’s databases, even those sealed to the public. I want you to run a database search.” 

A hum of acknowledgement and anticipation, awaiting his orders.

Megatron cycled his vents.

“Query: Lord High Protector.”


End file.
